


The Ghost of My Own Soul Is The Only Thing Haunting Me

by smile_it_will_get_better



Series: Umbrella Academy Oneshots [8]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Dreams vs. Reality, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Gaslighting, Gen, Ghosts, God this fic is a mess, Hurt Klaus Hargreeves, I don't even know if thats what to call it, I'm not sure why I wrote this but I am so glad I did, Klaus Hargreeves Needs Help, Klaus Hargreeves Whump, Like the dude can go die and he's not even really mentioned in this story, Mindfuck, Overdose, Questioning Reality, Reginald Hargreeves is a goddamn asshole, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, This was a fun one to write let me tell you that, You can call it that but mostly its just people questioning reality, but not in the way it typically is, but not really, just like me, ooooooh boy, so many ghosts, sorta - Freeform, the mausoleum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 16:09:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20473838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smile_it_will_get_better/pseuds/smile_it_will_get_better
Summary: The ghosts were too much, so he did the only thing he knew would help. He ran to his emergency supply, took as many pills as he could fit into his hand and shoved them down his throat.He swallowed and swallowed until there was none left, and when he started to feel lightheaded, stumbling down the halls as his vision blurred and the world started to slow down, he smiled because it was silent.Dead silent.His world faded into darkness.He woke up in the mausoleum....How long would Klaus have to be in the mausoleum before he's comfortable with the ghosts? Until he's fully over his fears?





	The Ghost of My Own Soul Is The Only Thing Haunting Me

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea why I wrote this. I should be working on my other fic, which should be out tomorrow for anyone who cares!!!, but I wrote this instead. So enjoy. 
> 
> Small trigger warning for drug use and a non-graphic overdose. There's also a few throwaway lines about sexual assault and rape. Please be careful if any of that is triggering!!

Klaus hated his powers. 

The ghosts surrounding him, the voices calling out to him in his sleep, the gruesome bodily horrors he is forced to see. 

But drugs? He loves drugs. 

Drugs help him sleep, drugs help him get close to near silence that he never knew for 12 years of his life, help him be able to experience life like a semi-normal human being. 

So yeah, he takes drugs, so many drugs he sometimes doesn’t even remember his own name. It’s worth his siblings’ glares and sighs, worth his father’s disappointment, worth the time when he’s puking his guts up and no one bothers to come and help him through it cause their all tired of his shit. 

It's just hard, living life the way he does. His siblings think he has it easy, and in a way he does. His father had more or less given up on him, had stopped letting him go on missions, stopped training him like the others. But it was worse in a way. 

He got little to no exposure to normal people anymore, his nights were filled with nightclubs and drug induces highs, but during the day? He was all alone. 

Or, as alone as someone like him could get. He was never truly alone. His concept of alone meant being alone with the ghosts. Even when high, he could sense their presence, the chill in the room, the feeling of eyes on him. When his siblings ignored him they weren’t leaving him all by himself, they were leaving him at mercy of the undead. 

But it was fine. It really was. 

As long as he was able to keep pumping himself full of drugs until he couldn’t’ see straight, he would survive, he would be fine. As long as he had the drugs to silence the constant noise, he would keep sane. And when the ghosts came back he would find some more pills to pop until they went away and he was able to focus again. 

But the high always wore off, and he was left staring into those dead eyes, blood and limbs surrounding him, the phantom blood covering every surface he could see and all he could hear was the screams of the dead, their bodies everywhere he could see. 

The high wore off. 

And he suddenly couldn’t hear, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe without the paralyzing fear surrounding him. There was an older man to the side, a foul looking yellow substance leaking out of his mouth. There were two little girls holding hands, huddled into the corner and praying, gunshots in both their chests, their nightgowns stained red. There was a woman above him, hanging with her neck at an odd angle, tears streaming down her face and her fingertips stained blue. 

No matter what he did, they followed, moaning his name and begging him for help, insisting that he could solve all their goddamn problems. He ran into Luther at one point, but he couldn’t hear his brother's voice over their screams, as body after body joined his side. A woman with her throat slit, a kid with bruises littering her skin, a man with both eyes gouged out. They kept coming. 

So he did the only thing he knew would help. He ran to his emergency supply, took as many pills as he could fit into his hand and shoved them down his throat. After a few seconds, they started to fade, but they were still there, getting closer and louder and he wanted it all to _stop_. 

So he took another handful. 

And then another one. 

He had managed to save a lot of pills, always putting at least half of the stash to the side when he got it, he had some self-control. But now? He swallowed and swallowed until there was none left, and when he started to feel lightheaded, stumbling down the halls as his vision blurred and the world started to slow down, he smiled because it was silent. 

Dead silent. 

His world faded into darkness.

____________________________________________

He woke up in the mausoleum. 

His mouth was dry and his head was pounding, his stomach heaving with every beat of his heart. He looked around, the stone walls registering first. 

“No no no no no.” He whispered, crawling to the door and banging on it. “Get me out of here! Dad! Please!”

There was no response. 

Someone behind him whimpered. 

He felt tears run down his cheek, and he wondered if coming down from a high ever felt worse than this. He could barely remember how he got here, the last thing he remembered was swallowing as many pills as he could until he passed out. 

Fuck. 

He overdosed, that much was clear. But if he did, why was he here? He should be recovering, should be with mom as she brushed back his hair and told him everything would be alright. 

How pathetic was it that the only person that ever touched him with love wasn’t even human? His siblings never went near him, too disgusted by everything he did to come close. And the people at clubs, they never touched him with love, they touched him because he was beautiful, because he shook his hips a certain way and batted his eyelashes when they stared at him. 

But right now, as the ghosts started to make more noise, he just wanted his mom. 

“Help!” He screamed his hands slamming down on the concrete door. 

He was terrified. He felt like death warmed over, he was fucking cold, his head was pounding, and his tongue felt too large for his mouth. 

He felt like he was dead. 

It would explain why he was in a mausoleum. 

He didn’t like that thought. His hands scrambled towards his neck, his fingers pressing against the point in his neck. After a few seconds, he felt the unsteady beat of his heart, and he sighed deeply. 

“We all feel our heart here.” A voice whispered behind him, over the chorus of his name. His eyes squeezed shut and he refused to look back. “Even the dead get what they wish for.” 

“Shut up,” He whispered, curling up, closing his eyes and turning to shove his back against the wall. “I’m alive. I’m alive.” 

“Then why are you here? It’s been too long since you’ve visited us Klaus.” The same voice whispered; a lot closer this time. Klaus focused on literally anything else, realizing that he was wearing the same clothes as before, down to his bare feet. 

“My father must have sent me here.” He told himself, unsure why he was humoring the dead spirit who wanted to kill him. “He’ll be back soon.”

“He’s not coming back.” The voice whispered. “You're stuck here with us.” 

“Shut up.” He whispered. “Shut up, shut up, shut up.” 

He whispered it over and over again, rising in volume as more ghosts joined in, until all he could hear was their screams and his own voice barely a whisper through the haze. 

He must have been there for hours. 

His father would come. He always did. 

That hour turned into a lot longer than that. 

It must have been his imagination speeding up the time, but it felt like it had been hours, almost a day. His father never left him for too long, seven hours at most, he was an asshole, but not evil. And his siblings would notice if he was gone longer than that. And while he knew his family never cared about him, he liked to think they would protest this, that they would find this inhumane and get him out of here. 

Maybe that was a fantasy. 

“Klaus,” A voice said, sounding as if they were right beside his ear. “You're dead.” 

“I’m not dead, you're dead.” He complained, not able to hear his voice over the noise. 

“If you’re not dead, why can I touch you?” The voice whispered. 

A few seconds later, he felt a freezing cold finger run over his cheek, caressing him almost lovingly. 

He started screaming. 

He tried to get away, turning and banging at the door, scratching in attempts to get it open. But hands kept grabbing at him, tearing at his clothes and making him fall flat onto his back. 

His eyes flew open, staring right into the face of a woman with her entire face cut up, her lips extended with bloody lines, swirls carved int her skin. A knife was protruding from her eyes. Her hands were cupping his cheek. 

He lashed out, pushing her away and fighting against the hundreds of limbs surrounding him. Now that he had opened his eyes, he found it hard to close them again. He kept staring around, fighting off the tidal wave of ghosts grabbing at him, overjoyed to finally be able to get to him after years of him being just out of their range. 

“Please,” He whispered, as his arms felt like putty and he couldn’t feel anything over the slick of blood covering them. He was feeling faint again, his futile fighting useless against their grabbing hands. “Please stop.” 

His vision went dark. 

________________________

He woke up in the mausoleum. 

The ghosts weren’t screaming, they weren’t talking, they just stared. Hundreds of eyes crammed into a room, staring dead at him. 

“Don’t you know staring is rude?” He croaked out, sitting up. He was terrified, his heart pounding and he could feel the still warm blood covering him. In the corner of the room lay a group of water bottles and what looked like granola bars, he crawled towards it, ignoring the lightest brush of contact covering his skin. 

He felt like he was going out of his mind, that this was all a fever dream and he would wake up at any moment. 

“Klaus,” One of the voices whispered. “Klaus.” 

“Shut up.” He whispered. 

He felt dead. 

Maybe he was. 

“What’s it like being dead?” He asked without thinking. Immediately they all spoke at once, their voices overlapping. He tried to focus in on one nearest to him. 

“You feel alive.” They whispered, he sounded young, childlike. “You barely notice the difference. You feel your heartbeat, but it isn’t real. It’s just your imagination pretending to feel it.” 

“Shut up,” Klaus whispered, curling in on himself. He stuck his finger into his pulse point, feeling the less than steady beat. It was real. It had to be. 

“Your so cold, like it’s thirty below and you are naked in your driveway.” A new voice chimes in. “You can’t retain any heat.” 

“It doesn’t hurt anymore.” A third chimed in. “Like everything was shut off. But if you try hard enough, if you focus you can make it hurt. You can remember what it was like to hurt, to feel hungry, to feel thirsty. It’s not real though. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real.”

“Shut up!” He screamed, his hands clamping over his ears. It didn’t hurt anymore. His skin was torn from their prying hands, but he could barely feel it anymore. It was just because he was used to it. 

“Accept it.” They all screamed, their voices breaking through his barrier. “You're just like us, Klaus. Just like us.” 

“Fuck you.” He cried, tears seeping down his cheeks. 

He slammed his head into the wall, over and over again until he passed out and he was finally allowed the sweet silence once again.

__________________________________

He woke up in the mausoleum, and he began to understand that he wasn’t going to wake up anywhere else for a while. 

The ghosts were still screaming, and he immediately put his hands over his ears in a stupid attempt at maybe blocking them out, of maybe being able to pretend they weren’t there. 

Hours later his hands fell, his arms had fallen asleep from holding them in the same place. For some reason, the volume of their chatter didn’t seem as loud. 

A day in he reached over and drank a bottle of water, counting a grand total of thirty in his collection. 

A day and a half in he ate a granola bar, wishing for the smooth taste of his mother’s food. He wondered if she missed him. He wondered if anyone did. 

By day three he started talking, about everything and nothing until his voice gave out and he was forced to simply listen to the screaming around him as they begged him to join them, to accept it and deal with it like they did. 

A week later he had cried all the tears he had in his eyes, and no matter how much water he drank, he wasn’t able to summon the tears back to his eyes. He screamed instead. 

A week and three days his ears bled until the sound faded and he was allowed two days of blissful silence, his eardrums not able to handle to sound anymore. He cherished that time, let himself believe that since he was still getting hurt, he had to be alive. 

It only took a day of silence before he was screaming again, even though he could hear no noise out of his mouth. The silence was almost worse than the noise, the utter lack of anything so unfamiliar it made his skin crawl until he was clawing at his ears, begging to hear again. 

Two weeks in he got his hearing back, and he found he didn’t quite mind the noise. It was better than the overbearing silence that threatened to drive him insane.

Two and a half weeks later he tried talking to the ghosts, listening to their stories and sharing some of his own. If you got over the constant begging and reputation of his name, they made some good conversation. 

Three weeks in he was halfway through his food supply and he no longer felt hungry all the time, he wanted to believe it was because he was used to not having food. 

Four weeks in, he hadn’t eaten in days and he could no longer feel the rumbling of his stomach. 

Four and a half weeks in he stood up on shaky unused legs and faded his demons, the people without eyes, without limbs, who painted the floor with their blood and organs. He stood up and faced them, and a part deep inside himself accepted that maybe this was now his life, that he was condemned like the rest of them to be forever stuck in this goddamn place, begging for release. 

Five weeks in and he accepted that maybe he was dead. That maybe he died in the overdose or even as the ghosts clawed him apart, and now he was sitting in the mausoleum as days passed by, fruitlessly hoping to be rescued. 

He accepted that no one was coming, that the only company he had from here on out was the ghosts. He accepted that although his heart still beat and he could still drink and eat, that he had passed on. He bent the rules of reality daily, being able to see ghosts, it wasn’t that much of a stretch to believe that as a ghost he might be able to do things normal ghosts couldn’t do. 

Six weeks in and he was used to the cold touch of the dead, as he taught them how to play Stella Ella Ola and Kit Kat Bar, taught a little girl with her wrists slit how to braid hair, learned how to bake a crème Brule with a chef who was killed in an armed robbery. 

Seven weeks in and the ghosts had gone to less than half, some of them finding him less interesting now that he wasn’t cowering on the floor. He wouldn’t smile at them, but he found himself used to their moans when they lost themselves, he found himself enjoying their company and their conversation. 

He sill grew stir crazy, pacing around the small room and wishing to be able to go out and dance, to find a stranger and screw them until he was a panting mess. But he managed to squash those urges by dancing with the ghosts, and old Victorian ghost teaching him how to ball dance. 

It was oddly refreshing, to let go of his old fears. To let the irrational hate and fear go until all he felt was, well, nothing. He felt free, able to stare at their gore without wanting to puke, could listen to their screams without flinching, the noise fading into background static.

It was odd sometimes he would find it alarming, when something would happen and he felt nothing inside. When he saw a particularly gory ghost and he would only stare with uncaring eyes. Something deep indie kept screaming at him, begging him to scream, to cry, to feel anything other than the utter nothingness that filled him these days. 

But he kept living (ha) his life day by day, accepting and adapting to those around him until they felt more like family than his actual siblings at home. 

He wondered if they missed him, if they grieved for him. Maybe they thought he ran away, was out doing drugs and getting into trouble. Did they hold a funeral? Did he get a portrait just like Five? God he hoped not, that thing was the ugliest thing he’d ever seen. He would like a nice burial. Maybe a cute headstone with either something funny on it or words that claimed he would come back to haunt whoever had sex on his grave. 

Would Ben miss him? Did Ben miss him? Did Ben cry for him, as the closet to Klaus when he died it felt fitting to imagine that maybe he would be sad, that he would care. What about Diego? He always tried to get Klaus to snap out of it. Too bad his efforts were wasted. Did Allison and Luther miss him? Luther was the last one he saw before this all went down, did the big guy feel guilty about it? 

He should stop thinking about this, it made him mad. They probably didn’t care anyway; he accepted their lack of love a long time ago. 

On the eighth week, he ran out of food and water. Three days alter he passed out again, or lost time as the ghosts called it. Apparently it was normal. But he woke up again. He was tired for some reason. His throat hurt no matter how many times he tried to get it to stop. Three days after that it happened again. 

The third time it happened he started to expect it. 

The fourth time it happened he was too weak to get up off the ground again.

The tenth week passed by when a murder wandered into the mausoleum and described every way he imagined killing Klaus. He trailed his fingers down Klaus’s neck as he described how he would slit it open, wrapped his hands around Klaus's arms and describes how he would chop them into little pieces. Put his hands over his heart and listed how long it would take for it to stop beating. 

The third hour he was there listing off every disturbing detail, Klaus asked for the fastest way to kill a man. The asshole was more than willing to answer every twisted and dark question Klaus thought of. He left two days later. 

A day after that, a man even viler than the first walked in. He described a lot worse things he would do to Klaus, tried to reach out and touch him in places Klaus didn’t want to be touched in. He was more relieved than he could voice when the man's hands passed through him for some reason. 

On the eleventh week Klaus forced himself to his feet, despite his throat feeling dry as hell and his vision swimming as he stood still. He turned to the closest ghosts to him, one whose throat was slit with a bib of blood covering her skin. He asked her to dance, and she held him close as he grew too weak to be able to keep to his own feet. She kept him swaying even when he couldn’t move. 

It was the most alive he felt in a long time, swaying with her, her warm blood a contrast to the ice-cold touch of her hands. He passed out in her arms, and when he woke up she was running her fingers through his hair. It felt like his mothers’ hand and he felt so grateful for the grounding feeling that he wasn’t able to fully comprehend the intense feeling swirling in his chest. She mouther a quick thank you before she faded into a white light so bright it hurt his eyes. 

Every day since that one he would either dance or play a game of their choice with one willing ghost, and when he passed out from exhaustion and weakness they would stay with him until he woke up, and he would feel that same flash of intense emotion before they faded into the light and he was able to rest a bit easier.

On the Fourteenth week the door opened, light flooding in. 

_________________________________________

He woke up in the infirmary, his mother hovering over him with a frown on her face. Her fingers carded through his hair and he was convinced she was able to fade like the ghosts he was surrounded with. It took him five minutes to realize she was _touching him_ and she was alive. 

(Well, as alive as a robot could get.) 

The tears caught in his throat and he thought he had cried all his tears but they came back now as he sobbed until he passed out again. 

He was alive. 

___________________________________

He woke up in his bedroom. 

He felt a lot better than the last few times he woke up, his throat wasn’t dry, (he forgot how it felt), and he could breathe in without feeling the dust swirling in the air. Best of all, it was warm again, (warm like the living, not like the cool dead of the mausoleum), and he wasn’t shivering like normal. 

The ghost of the little girl he taught to braid hair was in the corner, grinning at him. 

“You’re not dead.” She whispered. “Your one of the lucky ones.” 

“I don’t understand.” He whispered to her, she simply grinned, coming closer. 

“You will soon,” She paused, cocking her head to the side. “We’ll miss you. Will you come back to visit?” 

He wanted to say no, to remember the panic he used to feel at the mere thought of going into those stone walls that surrounded him. He used to hate the thought, the idea used to send him into a panic attack, closing up his throat until he passed out. But now? He felt nothing except anticipation. He found he wanted to go back, to talk to the ghosts who listened when they could, to dance with them and play games with the little kids.

“I promise.” He whispered, but then there was a knock on the door. 

Pogo walked in, looking almost surprised to see him up. 

“Master Klaus, you have awakened.” He said, walking a bit closer. Klaus wanted him to stay away. 

“Yup.” He said, popping the ‘p’ at the end. 

“How do you feel?” The monkey asked. 

“Like I’m dead.” He responded, except it was the exact opposite. He felt alive, like blood was coursing through his veins and warming him, like the heartbeat he felt was actually real. But he couldn’t say he felt alive, because that would sound relieving to anyone else. Saying he felt dead was the closet he could get to the foreign feeling he was experiencing right now. 

“Understandable,” Pogo hummed. “I’ll get you some food. You must be starving.” 

He wasn’t. 

“Thank you.” He said, the words feeling foreign on his lips.

“Your siblings wanted to come visit,” Pogo said. “I’ll send Master Ben and Diego in first.” 

Before he could even say if he actually wanted his siblings around, Pogo was gone, the door shutting halfway behind him. 

Klaus took the moment to look around. Everything seemed so bright to him. It wasn’t the stone-cold grey, and that felt wrong. Like he was vividly dreaming, like it was a nightmare. The color hurt his eyes, as well as the light. He stumbled weakly to his feet, walking over to the light switch and shutting it off. The darkness felt a lot more familiar. 

He felt like he was overheating, and he wanted out of his skin, which felt like it was melting off. 

There was a knock on the door. 

“Klaus!” Someone said, and that was the only warning he got before someone was rushing towards him, wrapping warm heavy (alive) arms around him and squeezing tight. 

“I missed you so much,” It was Ben, his head buried in Klaus’s neck. “You had me so worried. I am so glad you're alright, oh my god.” 

It was too much. 

Ben was too warm, too alive and it made him want to scream. It felt weird, alien to him, to not be surrounded and touched by the ice-cold hands of death. It made Klaus feel alive. Made him feel like he was actually here, not dead. 

But Klaus wasn’t alive. Not anymore. He had died, he knew that he died. He was supposed to be dead, why wasn’t he dead? 

“Get off of me!” He gasped, shaking and pushing away, stumbling back away from his brother, who stared at him with wide eyes. “Please don’t touch me, don’t touch me.” 

He fell to the ground, stuffing himself against the wall and his bed. If he focused hard enough it felt like he was in the corner of the mausoleum. 

This was all a joke, one big elaborate joke. 

He would wake up any moment and be back in the graveyard, the ghosts laughing at him for actually believing he was alive again. Any moment now he would open his eyes and everything would be back to normal. 

“Klaus?” This time it was Diego, and this had to be fake because they looked the same. Like no time had passed. This was all a dream. This wasn’t right. The world would go back to normal again and this warmth and aliveness would be washed from his skin and he could go back to dancing with the dead, swirling around and feeling powerful. 

“I want to go back.” He whispered. “Take me back.” 

“I don’t know what you're talking about,” Ben whispered, coming closer. “Klaus please.” 

“I don’t want to be here,” He said. “Why am I here? I should be dead; I want to be dead. Why aren’t I dead?”

Ben looked close to tears, panic living in his eyes. Ben was always so alive, even in this fantasy. He had two different people in one body, tow alive hearts beating at once. 

Klaus’s eyes caught onto the shine of steel in the corner of his eye, seeing the knife he left on his desk what seemed like ages ago. He stole it from Diego, wanting something to chop up his pills into powder. 

Without thinking he lunged for it, his hands wrapping around it and he turned it towards himself, stabbing it towards his heart. (His stupid beating heart, making him alive, making him live.) 

Someone crashed into him, knocking him to the ground and sending the knife scattering away. 

“No!” He cried, reaching towards it. Someone was on top of him, but it wasn’t the cold rotting flesh he was used to, it was warm and alive and heavy. “Get off of me.” 

“No,” Diego hissed, grabbing his arms to restrain him. “Klaus stop your scaring me.” 

“This isn’t real,” He whispered, his eyes fluttering shut. “I’m dead. I’m dead.” 

“No you’re not.” Diego insisted, and suddenly his fingers were being pried apart, shoved into his pulse point. “Feel this? This means your alive. I can feel it too Klaus, your alive. You’re here.” 

Klaus paused in his struggling, waiting for a second to just feel the rapid beat of his heart inside his wrist, and something inside clicked. 

He was alive. 

He was alive. 

He was alive. 

He didn’t want to be alive. 

He wanted to go back to what he knew, to the cold walls and dead faces. He could see them milling around still, but they weren’t like him, they were the odd ones out but he didn’t belong here, he wasn’t supposed to be alive. He wasn’t like Diego, like Ben. He should be dead; he was meant to be dead. 

Everything felt better when he was dead. Everything felt right when he was dead. It felt like something that was right, like that’s what life should be. Life shouldn’t be this warmth, this feeling. It should be cold, it should be dead eyes staring at you, it should be rotting flesh against your own. He wasn’t meant for life out here. 

He was crying. 

Tears running down his cheeks and Diego got off of him, grabbing the knife and tucking it into his belt. And yet Klaus didn’t move. 

“Klaus?” Ben said softly, reaching down and placing a hesitant hand on his shoulder.

Klaus didn’t react. 

“Klaus please, just let me know if you're okay.” 

He didn’t move. 

“Stop this, your scaring me!” 

Maybe if he lay here long enough he could pretend he was dead. Maybe he would wake up. 

“Get up.” 

He couldn’t move.

“Get up.” 

He was paralyzed, unable to think, unable to move. He didn’t want to exist. He wanted to go back. Please, he just wanted to go back. Life shouldn’t be this confusing, he wanted to go back. 

“Get up!” 

Suddenly he was moving again, someone grabbing his arms and dragging him to his feet. It hurt. 

Their fingers dug into his still raw skin, and he was staring into Diego’s eyes, which were tearing up. Diego was always a crier, no matter how much he denied it. 

“Come back,” He whispered, slapping Klaus’s cheek lightly. “Your alive, you’re not dead. Come back.” 

They didn’t understand, didn’t get it. How could they? How could he explain that the company of ghosts felt more normal than the company of his own siblings? He couldn’t, they would never be able to comprehend it. 

“You should go.” He said, and his voice felt weak like he had been screaming. He hadn’t screamed in weeks, not since he accepted his death. (He wasn’t dead, oh my god he wasn’t dead.)

“I don’t want to.” Ben said, taking Klaus’s shoulder and sitting him down on the bed. “I’m not leaving you again Klaus.” 

“I don’t want you here.” He sneered. 

He wanted anyone else here, he wanted the little girl he befriended, he wanted the ghost with the slit neck, hell he’d even settle for the assholes who whispered how to best kill a man. 

“Too bad,” Ben said fiercely, pushing Klaus and Klaus was powerless to stop himself from falling back. He was so weak, like a newborn fawn. Maybe he was reborn, revenge for all the shit he used to do. 

What did he use to do? His life before this all was a blur.

Before he could protest, Ben was wrapping around him, shoving their bodies awkwardly under a blanket, his arms trapping Klaus inside. He was powerless to move, too tired to even voice a protest. 

“Are you coming?” Ben asked, and it took him a long moment to realize he was talking to Diego, who also laid down with them, his arms also encasing Klaus. 

It felt wrong, live human skin surrounding him on all sides. He was overheating, unused to the warmth bodies radiated. He whimpered in protest, but he was so tired all the sudden, and despite wanting to retch at the feeling of being alive, he found himself drifting off to sleep. The warmth wasn’t as bad as he thought, and the beating of both Ben, Diego, and his own heats was oddly comforting.

Maybe, just maybe, he could get used to being alive again. 

______________________________________________

He woke up in a mausoleum.

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo the end is pretty open for interpretation. You can see it as he had a dream about waking up in the mausoleum, if he woke up and just thought he was back there. Or maybe him being saved was all a dream like he thought it was and Klaus is still stuck in the Mausoleum, no one but the ghosts to keep him company. Up to you:) 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed and please leave a comment telling me what you thought!! <3


End file.
